


the flickering of an expiring candle (makes the shadow of a bedpost dance)

by okapi



Category: Carmilla - J. Sheridan Le Fanu
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood, Christmas, Dreams, Dreams vs. Reality, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:55:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28447275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: At Christmastime, Laura finds herself arranging a winter centrepiece and thinking of Carmilla. It's a dream. Or is it?For Miss Davis Writes Advent Calendar Day 10: Candle.
Relationships: Carmilla | Mircalla Countess Karnstein/Laura
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3
Collections: 2020 Advent Ficlet Challenge





	the flickering of an expiring candle (makes the shadow of a bedpost dance)

It must’ve been a dream for I have no notion of how I arrived at such a peculiar setting at such a strange hour.

Let me begin by saying I was tasked, by whom I know not, to arrange a centrepiece of winter boughs and berries. I was in my nightgown, I know not why, and I stood at narrow table beyond which there was a large double-paned window which looked on a garden.

It had snowed and was still snowing, prettily. It must’ve been afternoon for the light was soft and waning.

The wooden bowl decorated with a holly motif was before me, and around it, the materials were assembled.

I began by sticking many stems of greenery in a sponge base. When that was done, I added chains of ivy and springs of a plant not known to me but with small, dark blue berries.

All was shades of green and dots of blue. At first.

There were a trio of gilded pinecones, and I tucked them in the bowl in as pleasing a placement as I could manage.

As I worked, the sun set, but the snow persisted. It grew dark, and the flecks of whites dancing, plummeting, against the twilight’s curtain added a touch of enchantment to my labour.

I proceeded to the fountain sprays of white-berried mistletoe. I embedded many in the base.

There were no flowers, just green leaves and vines, berries, and pinecones.

I nestled two heavy circular candleholders into the arrangement and sunk a pair of crimson tapers into the holders. 

Lastly, I added a few snips of holly, which was heavy with berries of a brighter shade of red.

I stepped back and smiled, pleased with the effect.

There was a box of matches on the table. I moved closer and lit one. I held the flame to the wicks.

It must have been the flame. Like the something of gold in her hair, the hair I used to play with.

Or maybe it was the windows and the world beyond them, large and dark and beckoning like her eyes.

Perhaps it was the feeling of languor, which constantly stole over her features, but was now in my veins like a draught, making me forget how I’d come there and where I was going next and why I’d been compelled to make the arrangement.

The windowpane was like her coldness in the face of my childish curiosity. The murmur of the wind whipping up the snow was like her lullaby susurrations in my ear, soothing my resistance and banishing my petulant ill will.

But, no, it was none of these. It was the candles. They were softening, melting, pooling. I felt the fond pressure of her hand and the brush of her lips against my cheek.

I could see myself in the glass. I saw the holly and ivy and mistletoe. And I saw the familiar figure standing behind me.

My pulse quickened, and I unbuttoned the top of my nightdress and tilted my head back and to the side, baring my neck and heart to the hungry gaze, reflected.

And then suddenly, the wind howled, and the windows burst open, and the snowy exterior thrust itself into my inner reverie.

The candles flickered like the dying frenzy of one who is not quite of this world.

There was a crash. The bowl toppled, spilling its contents, undoing all my work.

With the crash came a splash.

I gasped in pain. It felt as if a pair of needles were being stuck into my flesh.

I looked down at my chest.

Two drops of crimson bled down my bosom, and I spoke a word, the word which was, despite the passage of time, never far from my thoughts and almost always resting unquietly on my lips.

“Carmilla.”

* * *

The room was bathed in a dawn-muted snowlight when Hettie and Sadie entered.

The two exchanged a single glance before Hettie set the tea tray down, and Sadie stepped over the supine body to shut the windows. 

The two squatted on either side of the body and formed a stretcher with their arms. They lifted it from the rug and deposited it gently on the four-poster bed.

They watched the bare breasts rise and fall evenly. Hettie even went so far to hold a tiny mirror beneath the nose. It fogged nicely.

Sadie pulled a flask of oil from her apron pocket and, with Hettie’s handkerchief, proceeded to clean the red wax from the bare chest. When she was done, Hettie primly refastened the top of nightgown. 

When they’d tucked her in snugly, they looked at each other, looked at her, looked at each other, and shook their heads. They thought what they often thought.

Despite their aprons and caps and bobs, she was not their mistress. Not their _real_ mistress. Not by half. And what their real mistress saw in her, well, they just couldn’t see.

 _Silly chit_ , one of them thought.

 _But that’s what she likes_ , countered the other.

As they filed out the room, Hettie snapped her fingers and the layers of snow blown in by the window vanished. Sadie snapped her fingers, and the bowl leapt back on the table and all the boughs and berries with it, settling into a very pleasing arrangement, indeed.

The two left the room without a sound, without a shadow, and without a reflection. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
